Freckles
by truthandfireworks
Summary: After a night of Cruciatus, Barty Crouch Jr isn't quite finished with Fred Weasley.


The blood soaked into the dark brown carpet, barely appearing at all (unless one was looking very closely, which Barty doubted anyone would). It was almost like a trophy, in a way. He had successfully performed the Cruciatus curse on a student and there would be no way that said student would tell anyone. Fear of death, thanatophobia, always a good motivator to keep one's mouth shut. Thanatophobia, Barty rolled the word around in his mouth, never actually saying it out loud. He kept repeating it, without a sound, as he stared down at the carpet.

Perhaps it was because he was staring at the stain. Maybe he was only staring because he knew what had happened. Because he knew what he had done.

Cruciatus on a student.

His mind began to race. Even with the threat of dying, he could have easily run off to Dumbledore or McGonagall and told them what happened. It would only take a few seconds for them to realize that he wasn't playing some stupid prank and that his Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher was clearly not who he claimed to be and that he had, indeed, used an Unforgivable Curse on Fred. They could be standing outside his door right now, waiting for the right time to barge in and haul him back to Azkaban. What if he was going to tell but tomorrow? Or the next day?

He would only have to show them the bruises on his wrists to prove that he was forced down. Perhaps pinning his hands to the ground wasn't the best idea, Barty thought as the stain became more visible. As the stain started to grow in size, Barty's thoughts were overpowered by the scene that had happened only thirty minutes ago. Fred stealing his supply Polyjuice as a joke (and to make sure that it wasn't alcohol that his Professor was swigging and not sharing) and causing Barty to transform back into his regular body. He preferred his regular body to Moody's body. Moody's body had the shape of cottage cheese with oil and bacon. His body was slim, possibly a little-too-much-so, but he was strong. Strong enough to pin the seventeen year old Quidditch player beneath him and keep him there as he watched him writhe in agony.

He covered Fred's mouth with his palm to muffle the sound of his screams. Barty flipped his hand over and inspected his palm closely. Funny, he thought (and not funny-humorous, but funny-strange), it was as though he could still feel Fred's lips pushed against his skin. He was instantly reminded of Fred's hot breath against his palm and his heavy panting, only taking breaths between yelling out, in case anyone could hear him.

But no one could hear him, Barty had made sure of that.

He looked from his palm to the carpet. The stain now stuck out like a sore thumb, how he hadn't noticed it's obvious presence before was baffling. Fred had been biting the insides of his mouth, along his cheeks, to keep from making noise. Thanatophobia, Barty felt his tongue spell out again. It wasn't until Fred started choking that Barty sat back on his hips and let the ginger breathe. His mouth oozed with red, blood catching between his teeth, outlining each tooth perfectly. Fred spat the blood into the carpet, he watched as it poured from Fred's mouth into little connecting dots on the rug. He felt him panting beneath him, gulping down air as if he had been held under water.

Fred had propped himself up on his elbows and looked up at Barty. If the Death Eater hadn't known that Fred was (usually) a lighthearted individual, the look would have strongly suggested that Fred was not a force to be reckoned with. But he was so much fun! Sarcastic and cutting and asking too many questions and, well, as hard as it was for Barty to not react, he had noticed a few other things about the Weasley.

Every freckle on Fred's face and arms (and the ones he saw on his neck when Fred loosened his tie to keep from choking) was that perfect shade between dark and faint. More than once, Barty had to stop himself from connecting them with his tongue; looping around their intricate designs and leaving his mark on the ginger. A large, dark purple bruise on the side of his neck that Fred would later have to explain to everyone. Barty would point it out in class and ask Fred to tell them all the story and grin victoriously when Fred could not provide an answer.

There were a fair few decent freckles on his arms too. (Barty realized he had spent so much time thinking about Fred's freckled face and Fred's freckled neck and Fred's freckled arms and where else Fred might've been covered in entertaining freckles). He pulled on his coat and noticed his feet were walking towards the door to the office. He looked back on the stain, which had now spread throughout the entire carpet, a deep red that seemed to sploch to be darker in certain areas. He shut the door behind him and began to walk.

Where were his feet taking him? Why was he walking so fast? What was down this way, Gryffindor Tower? Why on Earth would he want to go to Gryffindor Tower? Fred would be asleep and why was he still thinking about him? His mind clouded over with thoughts that an educator (not to mention a Death Eater) should not have been thinking. That idiot, he thought has he turned a corner sharply, he would tell everyone. That's what it was. That's why his feet lead him straight to the portrait of the Fat Lady. Because he knew Fred Weasley would tell someone about what had happened.

The Fat Lady snored louder than a thunderclap (which wasn't really a surprise, considering her weight) and it made Barty grow even more nervous. Fred hadn't come back to Gryffindor Tower yet, otherwise, the Fat Lady wouldn't've been in such a deep sleep. Where did he go, Barty wondered, his feet beginning to pace. Where could he have gone at this late hour? To Dumbledore? It was a possibility. Dumbledore would listen to any student at any given time of the day (even when the time of the day was technically at night).

_Tap, tap, tap_. Trainers on the cold stone floor.

It was him. It was Fred.

And this was Barty's chance.

Fred must've spotted him from the corner of his eye. Perhaps he saw him standing there, staring him down and his expression growing angrier. "Fredrick," Barty grabbed Fred by the wrist and started to tug him back towards his office. Questions could be asked there, where there wasn't a snoring portrait and they had some peace (and Barty knew they would be totally alone).

"I'm sorry," Fred whispered, trying to keep up. "I didn't tell anyone. I only went to the kitchens. I wanted something to drink. I didn't want the taste of blood in-"

"Quiet," Barty hissed as he dragged him behind a tapestry. The narrow staircase behind the old tapestry seemed to wind into infinity when finally they reached the door to the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom. "Get in," he opened the door, watching as Fred nervously rubbed at his arms.

"I swear," Fred said, tugging at his hair. "Please, listen to me."

"I'm tired of listening," Barty pushed him up the stairs and into his office. He slammed the door shut behind him and grabbed Fred, pushing him up against the door. Fred's ribs pushed gently against his, his eyes shut tight (and Barty noticed even more freckles on his eyelids. How curious, he thought to himself, as he watched Fred chew on his bottom lip nervously. Freckles on his eyelids). "Fredrick," he whispered, closing his own eyes and leaning his forehead against the speckled one in front of him. "I can't stop thinking about this."

Fred didn't reply. What was there to say? (Barty had, perhaps, hoped or expected at least an "I can't either", but he knew that for him, especially for him, that was a long shot). Fred's hands shook at his sides and his entire body trembled because of them. The tiny shivers and vibrations pulsed through Fred's skin and Barty could feel it all the way into his own toes. "Seventeen," Barty spoke quietly just above Fred's lips. (The day was the seventeenth. Fred was seventeen. There were seventeen freckles along Fred's bottom lip).

"What?" Fred asked, his eyes opening hazily.

Barty's hands reached for Fred's hips. "Nothing," Barty mumbled, tilting his head and pushing his mouth into Fred's. (Kiss me back, he thought, as he tried to coax Fred's lips to part with his tongue. Just kiss me back).

Fred's mouth opened (whether to breathe or to gasp or to yell) and Barty slipped his tongue inside, rubbing his tongue against Fred's. (It was silly, but in that brief second, when Fred let out a tiny groan and Barty started to grin, Barty wondered if Fred's tongue was freckled. Which was ridiculous. Tongues aren't freckled. Honestly, for someone so brilliant, he truly was easily caught up in the rapture of silly freckles). His hands slid over Fred's front, quickly pulling his partly-tucked-in shirt out from his pants. His fingers brushed across his stomach and Barty's mouth contorted into a grin. "Here," he put Fred's still-shaking hands on his hips and kissed the corner of his mouth. He watched those lips turn from a nervous line on Fred's face to a slightly embarrassed smile. "Just let me," Barty leaned into him again, pressing every inch of his body against Fred's.

When Fred's hands began to wander (which Barty was curious as to where they would go), Barty began to do to those freckles on Fred's neck as he had wanted to all night. His tongue swirled across a patch of skin, making Fred's hands fumble quickly with his shirt. (He could have sworn that Fred had said something along the lines of "Oh fuck" or "Fuck" or "Fuck, Barty". Then again, it could have just been his imagination playing tricks). Fred tugged Barty's shirt off, grabbing on to Barty's hips (so tight, he was sure he'd leave bruises) and pulling him into him, lifting his hips into Barty's and gasping into the other man's mouth.

Now, whether or not Fred knew that Barty had wanted Fred to suck on his tongue, the shock sent sparks flying to Barty's fingertips and toes. The sheer longing in Barty's groan should have been enough to convey his thanks for Fred doing as he had hoped. (Much like when Fred took a chance and bit Barty's bottom lip, Barty pressed his hips harder into Fred's). Fred's shirt somehow, in the process of Barty's hands wandering all over the ginger's body, also found its way to the ground (right beside the Death Eater's). Barty's hand slid slowly down Fred's unclothed torso, stopping only to brush his fingers over Fred's stomach (to make sure it wasn't the light playing tricks with his eyes). He pulled his mouth away from Fred's, panting heavily and looking down between them. His fingers (after a bit of exploring) found Fred's zipper. "Stop me," Barty didn't take his gaze off the space between them. "Stop me if you want to."

When Fred's hips pushed into Barty's hand and Barty finally took his eyes off that tiny gap between them and looked at Fred (well, he wished he could save that moment forever. Fred's eyes were dark blue and hazed over, his hair was a mess and that bottom lip of his looked like it had taken quite a beating. Barty was never one to hold on to something forever, but if he could choose (which he couldn't), he would choose that look on Fred's face. That face embedded into his memories and emotions themselves. That face that made his ears hurt with the stinging sound of silence (when neither could breathe but both were panting). That face that stared back at him (even though it never should have looked at him in the first place). His fingers pulled down Fred's zipper slowly and he took a deep breath (like before plunging into water) before letting his hand stumble beneath the fabric and wrap around Fred firmly.

As if the groaning (and constant "Oh God, Barty") wasn't enough of an indicator that the Death Eater was doing something correctly, the hair pulling and earlobe biting sent out a clear message. With faster strokes (and more well-timed kisses), Barty managed to make Fred beg for him to stop (which he knew all too well was a clear hint that Fred wanted him to continue with his actions). He contemplated dropping to his knees; thought about allowing Fred into his mouth (wondered just how loud he could make Fred yell during an orgasm). But that could wait till later, he decided, pumping his hand faster and watching Fred writhe against the wooden door. (But this time, as opposed to the last time that Barty watched Fred wriggle because of him, Fred seemed to like the constant assault on his body. He couldn't breathe properly and his lip was so swollen, one could've sworn Barty had hit him and now was making up for his violent deeds. Is that what this was? Guilt? Guilt that seemed to seep into his carpet and spread faster than bacteria?)

In the midst of Fred pulsing in Barty's hand and Barty trying to figure out how to prolong their night together, Barty could have sworn he heard the ginger speak. (It sounded almost like "Stop, please, no really, stop"). "I can't stop, Fredrick," he whispered against Fred's lips, leaning in that tiny bit closer and nipping at his bottom lip. Their mouths seemed to fit perfectly with one another. Barty had left enough space for his lips to still encompass Fred's, but enough for him to speak. "Fredrick," he said (but really, hardly any sound escaped him), "I can't stop now." He rubbed the pad of his thumb across Fred's tip and grinned when the ginger's shudder caused them to accidentally press lips again. "Come for me, Fredrick," the words rolled around on his tongue before he sucked Fred's tongue into his mouth. (Throughout their brief time together, well, together like this, Barty noticed that Fred's actions were nervous to begin with and now he was just as determined as Barty was. Barty was shocked when Fred's hand joined his as they kissed and Fred began to tremble again. Mimicking what Fred's hand had shown him, Barty continued quickly, leaving tiny bites and kisses along his collarbone). Barty watched as Fred's eyes clamped shut and his mouth let out an unintelligible moan. His eyebrows were arched and his fingers pulled at Barty's hair (as if he were holding on to life at the brink of death).

"Good," Barty grinned, leaving a soft kiss under Fred's ear. "Really. Just brilliant." (He felt Fred cling to him. A shaking, ginger mess of a boy, clinging to Barty for dear life. As if the room were falling apart around them and he had nothing else to hang on to. His breathing was laboured and slow, his arms still wrapped around his neck, his fingers laced into Barty's hair. For that brief moment, he needed Barty. He needed him to help him stand as his head regained the ability to think. He needed him to stay warm; the window had been opened just enough to make the room colder).

"Barty?"

The sound of Fred's voice wasn't appreciative (which came as a shock to Barty. He should have been thankful for what had just been done. It's not like Barty would have done that for anyone else). Barty gasped quietly when he felt Fred's lips make light contact with his jaw. Light, fluttering kisses up to his ear. (And a strange mumble that sounded suspiciously like "Where's your bed?", but Barty wasn't about to let his imagination get the best of him).

"Shall we then?" Fred kissed the shell of Barty's ear.

"Oh yes," Barty nodded slowly. "We shall."


End file.
